


to say that i cared about you is an understatement

by XellyChan



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:03:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XellyChan/pseuds/XellyChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And two of your wrongs probably means i'm right - Free Throw</p>
            </blockquote>





	to say that i cared about you is an understatement

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know either. maybe someday i will

“Look-- just... Look--” Nero says, not desperate, not pleading, not.... (or so he tells himself) and tightens his grip on Dante’s coat, the leather creaking. It’s precarious, a little like walking a tightrope, and he feels himself sway. “At me. _Look._ ”

he can never catch his balance in this place, with this person.

If he breathes in now, the air (putrid, diseased) will catch in his chest, bleeding (too bright and too) red and too (in)human. Dante cups the back of his neck, (familiar and

(not for him, a voice -- _the_ voice from before, perhaps-- tells him)

wholly, terribly, alienating) warm thumb over pulse and rocks their foreheads together. This is not his answer, but Nero hopes (not prays, no because he never honestly done that. but maybe he can dream; like he did with kyrie and credo and…) and he’s willing to wait. Nero knows his patience is wanting, but for this, he can become stone, for this he can weather the time, for this he will be immovable but for his going forward.

He has no delicacy. Neither does Dante. If he can, Nero would like to believe it could work. He leans forward, touching their mouths together-- just so-- uneven and imperfect and not what could rightfully be called a kiss-- and tastes something sweet, something bitter, and thinks it may be the blood they don’t share.

“Kid-- Nero.” And there's that same carelessness in his voice, but it sounds --and feels-- fabricated somehow. Like airs, put on for a show no one will see.

Dante does not mince away from things. He does consider running away, now, though-- just this once. He’s felt reigned in and chained down before, hadn’t enjoyed the experience (he once told Lady, mouth contorted in a grin that could only be called a grin because it involved lips, teeth; rain pooling in the hollowed cavity of his torn open chest; heart pulsing bare and viscerally vulnerable for anyone to reach in an rip out, hold it their hands. take a bite) but there’s nothing like that now, and yet his palms itch and he’s this fucking close to exiting stage left.

(The stranglehold of fate, destiny, something like that, has long since fallen away into a place he can’t reach.)

“What are you doing.” It’s not a question, as much as he wants it to be. More like a deterrence, a pebble thrown in some great schism just to see how far it goes. Can go. He grimaces then, finds he doesn’t want that either, his mouth shifting closer to Nero’s cheek. That, at least, is easier. Or would be, if Nero didn’t follow him.

It makes Dante want to smile despite himself, this persistence. The urge folds on itself soon enough.

Nero is…

not weak

but he is young

and stupid

and (loves too honestly)

and is too transparent

and he is not the one who breaks first. It’s like the world is ending, feels like it anyway, when Dante drops his head to Nero’s shoulder. He feels old, wasted and wrung out, like his human age as finally crept up on him, multiplied by dog years. “You need to stop.” says Dante, not waiting for an answer. “You really do. Nero.” He’s not so far gone as to let stress crack his voice, there’s no tremble in his throat, only a breathy sigh like a breeze from some far flung coastline.

But Nero is like natural lightning snapped over glass sand, and Dante’s cradled lightning in his hands before, taken the brunt of it’s anger and power across his skin, only this is shades different, pure energy that will burn but not harm, not completely, rippling whim and want and whoosy temper. Maybe he’s mixed up his metaphors, lost his grip on something he’s already cut himself open trying to grasp.

“You need to stop being a fucking idiot,” Nero shoots back, and Dante can feel the bloom of anger, embarrassment, bravado, stubbornness-- whatever-- under the boy’s skin. He laughs without mirth much behind it.

“You really are a kid,” He says, to provoke and to prove and to deflect. “A stupid fucking kid with no room to talk.” He lifted himself, looking off to the side and snubbed his nose. More hollow airs.   
He wants to say, ‘Look, kid-- Nero-- Joke’s gone sour; time to cut it loose.’ Instead he smiles, indulgently, magnanimously, and turns away.

“Fucking asshole,” Nero spits through a thickening throat. He clenches his fist, does not reach, does not take. “You, and _him_ \-- and me too.” He growls, thrusts his hand to clutch at the place above his heart. “Just you wait and-- _I’ll make you see me_.”

Dante waves.

“Grow up a little first. Then come strike me down.”


End file.
